


Polly to the Rescue

by JohnAmendAll



Category: Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 13:01:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2812940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JohnAmendAll/pseuds/JohnAmendAll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Polly investigates a factory, and makes some interesting discoveries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Polly to the Rescue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smallearthcat (vamplover82)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamplover82/gifts).



> I saw the prompt for Polly rescuing Ben, and couldn't resist writing it.

From outside, the factory had looked much like its neighbours: built for function rather than appearance, badly in need of a coat of paint, and distinguished only by the stacks of lumber outside. Its interior, too, was much as Polly had expected: men in overalls were pushing planks through circular saws, drilling and shaping lengths of timber, and engaging in other activities which she vaguely grouped together under 'carpenter stuff'. 

There had been no receptionist or porter at the way in, but as she walked onto the factory floor several heads turned, and one of the men approached her. He was older than most of the employees, with greying hair, and a cigarette was tucked behind his ear. Probably the foreman, Polly decided. 

"Can I help, miss?" he asked, having looked her up and down. 

"Well, I hope so," Polly said. "You see, I got a letter to come and speak to Mr Sowerby about an order for saw blades." She delved in her capacious shoulder bag, and produced a typewritten sheet. "He said he's got a query about the order numbers, and he wanted me to call round and talk to him." 

The foreman read through the typescript, and scratched his head. 

"I'll ask him about it," he said. "If you'd like to wait?" 

As he strolled away across the factory floor, Polly took up her position by the wall. At first she gave the appearance of studying the various posters, diagrams and girlie calendars that hung there; that having apparently palled, she extracted a powder compact from her bag, and dabbed at her makeup, peering at her reflection in the compact's tiny mirror. 

Before long, the foreman returned, puzzlement clear on his face. 

"I'm afraid Mr Sowerby says he's never heard of you," he said. "And he says we've never used Stalwart saw blades here, either." 

"How odd." Polly took the letter back, and gave it a puzzled look. "That signature could be anybody's, couldn't it? It must be some sort of prank. Yes, one of the girls back at the office must have set me up. I bet it's Lizzy. I'm sorry for taking up your time." 

The foreman gave her a reassuring smile. "No problem, miss." 

Polly tucked the letter into her trusty shoulder bag, and let an uncomfortable expression cross her face. "Oh. Could I use the toilet before I go?" 

"Don't see why not." The foreman jerked his thumb at a door in the corner. "Through there, second on the right." 

"Thanks." Polly gave him a bright smile. "No need to hang around. I'm sure I can find my way out." 

Having seen him hurry away, she followed the directions she had been given. Safely locked away from prying eyes in a repellent cubicle, she unslung her bag and extracted from it a grubby white overall and a flat cap. Quickly, she pulled the overalls on over her dress, and tucked her hair under the cap. The letter, which had now served its purpose, she flushed down the toilet, and a few other odds and ends went in the pocket of the overalls. That left the empty bag. Not without a twinge of regret — it had almost certainly been genuine Vuitton — she folded the bag as small as it would go, raised the lid of the lavatory cistern, and pushed the bag in. A brief stop at a basin to wash the makeup from her face, and then she headed back towards the factory floor, to all appearances just another worker. As long as no-one looked too closely, anyway. 

She walked across the busy floor, moving purposefully but — she hoped — not quickly enough to arouse suspicion. The plans on the wall had confirmed her suspicions about this building: it was too small on the inside. There ought to be another ten feet of space behind the far wall of this room. And since there was no external door to that space, the only way to get to it must be from in here. That door marked STRICTLY NO ADMITTANCE looked like a good place to start. 

The moment she reached the door and put her hand to the handle, she realised that things weren't going to be as simple as that. The door was locked. Even if she'd had the skill to pick it, it was hardly likely that the workmen would fail to notice her doing so. 

"Hey!" a man's voice called from behind her, and her heart leapt in terror. "You can't go— who are you?" He raised his voice. "Who's that?" 

Abandoning the door, Polly made for a hatch in the wall, about three feet off the ground and a few yards away. Behind her, she could hear running feet and more shouting. She reached the hatch, and pushed at it; it rattled, but stayed fast. Desperately, she looked around. A number of offcuts of timber lay nearby. She snatched one up, and swung it against the hatch with all her strength. The blow jarred her arm horribly, but she was sure something had given. Before she could strike it again, someone had grabbed her by her free arm. Without conscious thought, she swung her improvised club blindly; with a cry of pain, the grip lessened. She tore free, and scrambled through the hatch, her cap falling off in the process and revealing her long hair. Whoever had tried to grab her caught at her legs, but she kicked loose, hastily turned, and slammed the hatch shut. It had been held shut by a latch, which her act of vandalism had torn loose, but there was also a stout bolt. She shot the bolt, turned again, and for the first time was able to take stock of this new part of the factory. 

In shape it was as she expected: a long, narrow rectangle cut off from the original factory floor by the wall she'd just passed through. In other respects, it also resembled the factory: there were the same fixed machines, the same stacks of planks, and the same steel vats which, Polly supposed, held resin or varnish or something similar. The three things not present in the outer factory were a neat stack of what looked like engines of some kind; a gallery halfway up the far wall, on which at least two people appeared to be standing; and a conveyor belt running the length of the room. From the arrangement of the belt, it appeared that, in the normal course of events, logs would be loaded onto the belt, undergo a number of drastic transformations, and emerge as planks. 

Currently, the only thing on the belt was Ben. Restrained hand and foot, he was being conveyed feet-first towards a huge, rapidly-rotating circular saw. 

Polly had taken all this in in far less time than it takes to describe. Even as her eyes fell on Ben, she heard the Doctor's voice from the gallery. 

"Polly!" he shouted. "Duck!" 

Immediately, Polly threw herself flat. At the same moment, a gunshot echoed through the room. There was a cry of pain from the far side of the hatch as the bullet found a mark among the men trying to get through. Keeping low, Polly crawled across behind a row of machines, trying to get closer to the conveyor whilst keeping out of sight. She had a vague idea that machines in a factory usually had a big red button to stop them, and fervently hoped that the same would apply here. As she darted across a gap in the machinery, more shots rang out, striking sparks from close to her head. There was a red button close at hand, but pushing it had no apparent effect. 

Another hurried crawl brought Polly closer to the conveyor. Now she had to cross another, wider gap, and she'd be an easy target for the man with the gun. She looked around; lying close by was a mop and a pile of rags. She draped a rag over the mop head, and pushed it out into the gap. Two more shots echoed through the factory, then the click of an empty chamber and a muffled curse. The gunman must be out of ammunition, at least for the moment. Abandoning stealth, Polly ran for the conveyor, ignoring angry shouted orders from the gallery and muffled banging from the factory outside. There was still no sign of an emergency stop button; she took a deep breath, and hoisted herself onto the belt. It wasn't moving as fast as she'd feared — doubtless its speed was better suited to cutting and shaping timber than cutting Ben in half, but even so he could only be a couple of minutes from being bisected. She crawled along the belt towards where Ben was tied, feeling slatted, ridged metal under her hands and knees. 

Ben, when she reached him, was tied at the hands and feet, with another rope across his chest. 

"Pol," he said, as she looked down at him. "When I heard the Doctor calling you I didn't know what to think. What are you doing here?" 

"Saving you, I hope," Polly replied. 

Ben's face was set and white, but he managed a faint smile. "I hope so too, Duchess." 

Wasting no more time on talk, Polly reached for the rope restraining Ben's right hand. She fumbled with the knots, to no avail, then dug in her pocket and pulled out a pair of nail scissors. Opening them to their fullest extent, she began to saw at the coarse fibre. As the rope began to part under her scissors — but how slowly! — Polly looked up again at the gallery. There was only one figure up there now, and Polly was almost sure it was the Doctor. It looked as if he, too, was restrained, possibly tied to a pillar. Of the other man, the one who had shot at her, there was no sign. The noise of the conveyor belt drowned out any sound of footsteps, and as Polly knew all too well, there was plentiful cover in this cluttered space. 

The first rope parted, and Polly moved on to the rope holding Ben's other hand. If anything, this seemed to be thicker and less yielding, or perhaps the mistreatment was damaging her scissors. Still, it duly parted, and she changed position to start work on the ropes restraining Ben's chest. 

"Don't worry," she reassured him. "I'll have you out of there in no—" 

Abruptly, Polly's legs were seized in an iron grip; she was dragged off the conveyor and thrown roughly and painfully against something with hard, angular edges. 

"I've had enough of you interfering," the masked man looming over her said. Polly recognised his voice, and filed it away for future reference. For the time being, her only concern was the pistol in the man's hand. Her guess about it having no bullets must be correct, because he was holding it reversed, and was even now swinging it at her head. 

If he had tried a second earlier he would probably have cracked Polly's skull, as he intended. That second, though, allowed Polly to dodge the blow and roll to one side, with stabs of pain from her new bruises. She cast a quick glance up at the conveyor, but before she could climb to her feet, let alone onto the belt, she had to throw herself down again as the pistol whistled over her head. As she tried once more to stand, a vicious kick sent her stumbling forward into a heap of paint tins. 

"Had enough yet?" her assailant asked her smugly. 

Dazed and off-balance, Polly could do no more than turn her head to look as he raised his pistol again. This time, as he tried to bring it down, the blond, wiry figure of Ben flashed into her field of vision and caught at the outstretched arm. The man swung round to deal with the new threat, knocking Ben's hands aside and reaching for his throat. 

Polly managed to stand, and realised she was holding a small tin of paint in her left hand. She hurled it at the man; it hit him on the back. He hardly seemed to notice, concentrating on forcing Ben back against the conveyor. Polly snatched up another tin, big and heavy, a two-handed job. She staggered forward, and brought it down on the man's head with all the strength she could manage. The lid flew off, sending splashes of red paint in all directions, but the man collapsed like a wet dishrag, without even a groan. 

"Nice work, Pol," Ben said. 

Polly looked at him, then down at the tin in her hands. "Is he..." 

Ben knelt down by the man. "You didn't kill him," he said. "He's breathing, at least." 

"How did you manage to untie yourself?" Polly asked. "I suppose I'd got your hands free, but I couldn't do anything with those knots." 

"You're not a sailor, Pol." Ben held up a length of rope. "I'll deal with matey here: you go and see about the Doctor. He's up there somewhere, tied up most likely." He began tying the man's hands behind his back. "Let's hope no-one out there comes to see what the noise was." 

"Oh, don't worry about that." Polly delved in the pocket of her borrowed overalls, and produced a slim silvery cylinder. "You don't think I came on my own, do you?" 

She put the whistle to her lips and blew three sharp blasts. Then, seeing that Ben was on top of the situation at floor level, she hurried across to the balcony and clambered up the ladder. The Doctor was, indeed, tied to one of the posts that formed part of the gallery. His eyes widened with concern at the sight of Polly, as she hurried forward and began to cut at his ropes. 

"Are you hurt?" he asked. 

"I think it's just bruises," Polly said, hoping she was right. "Doctor, he's Sir Edward Cooke, isn't he? The one who tied you and Ben up, I mean." 

"Yes, I'm afraid he is," the Doctor said. "Ben and I agreed the only way to find out how the shipments were being sabotaged was to stow away with one. It turns out they were being brought here. Only Sir Edward's men found us." 

Another rope parted under Polly's scissors; she moved to the next one. 

"So he's the saboteur, then?" she asked. 

The Doctor nodded sadly. "Yes, I'm afraid he probably is." 

"And he was the one who put Ben on that conveyor?" she went on, with sudden anger in her voice. 

"He was," the Doctor said. The rope holding one of his hands parted, and he took the opportunity to squeeze Polly's shoulder. "He thought if he put Ben in danger, I'd be forced to tell him how much we knew." 

"Would you have?" 

The Doctor considered the question. "If there was no other way to save Ben? I might have done." 

Polly continued sawing. "Wouldn't you have been risking hundreds more lives?" 

"Yes, but I'd have had more time to do something about that. And anyway, you found us first. How did you do that, by the way?" 

"I went through the mileage records for the lorries," Polly said. "They were all just about five miles too high, so I knew they couldn't have gone far out of their way. Then I chatted to some of the drivers, and found out where—" The last rope came free. "Well, I'll tell you the whole story once General Cartwright's here. I don't think he'll be long." 

Sure enough, as Polly climbed down the ladder, the doors from the factory burst open and several soldiers rushed in. The General was only a few paces behind his men. 

⁂

"So once I was sure where the factory was, I called the General and he had his men wait outside," Polly said. "We agreed that if I managed to trap the saboteur, I'd call for them." 

"You could have whistled for us as soon as you got into this room," the General said. "Might have helped." 

Polly felt herself blushing. "Yes, I suppose I could. But I couldn't think of anything except Ben getting cut in half." 

"You should've seen her," Ben said. "Nearly brained that Sir Edward with a paint pot." 

"I did notice a certain resemblance to Lady Macbeth," the Doctor said, casting a wry glance at Polly's paint-stained hands. "The theatrical one, of course. The real one was quite different." 

"I might have killed him," Polly said, still blushing. "I mean Sir Edward." 

"Serve him right if you had," Ben said. "He knocked you about, didn't he? _And_ tried to have me cut in half from the goolies up. Few seconds later and a fat lot of good I'd have been to you— I mean, to the girl I—" 

"I know what you mean," Polly said, unable to resist a faint smile. 

"Quite." The Doctor clasped his hands. "Now, General, I believe that we've uncovered the mystery of your saboteur, and brought the culprit safely to justice. That means, I think, that our business is done?" 

"That's right." The General shook hands with the Doctor, then Ben. "Thank you both for your efforts." He turned to Polly. "And you, Miss Wright. If you ever want to work for Special Operations..." 

"Thank you for the offer." Polly took his proffered hand. "But I couldn't leave Ben and the Doctor in the lurch. You can see what trouble they get into when I'm not there to save them."


End file.
